


Fossil Fuel

by lynnenne



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-27
Updated: 2010-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnenne/pseuds/lynnenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bad day at Wolfram & Hart leads to Angel/Spike sex. Spike/Connor implied. Fluffy self-indulgent comfort fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fossil Fuel

Ten minutes to five. He should have told Harmony to lock the doors, keep everyone out and hold all his calls. Then he could have slipped down the elevator to the garage, driven to Connor and Spike's apartment and spent the evening drinking with them at that noisy bar Spike's always dragging them to, listening to Connor talk about school and watching Spike cheat at pool.

Instead he's standing in his office with a sword in his hand and a decapitated head on his carpet. Purple blood - they're never gonna get that clean.

"Harmony." He sticks his head (his own, not the decapitated one) out the door and yells. "Tell maintenance to replace the carpet in here."

"Again?" She can manage a very fetching pout when she wants to. "That's the third time this month. You're running way over budget on office expenses."

"Tell them to take it out of HR," Angel grumbles. "We have one less salary to pay."

She picks up the phone and dials with perfectly manicured nails.

Maintenance comes to clean up the head. Angel tells them to leave the carpet until morning. He'll work from Wes's office tomorrow. It's his fault for walking in with that file at _ten minutes to fucking five_.

He cleans his sword. Hangs it back on the wall. Now he has a headache. And purple blood stinks like dirty bath water.

So of course, it's no surprise when -

"Evening, gramps."

He shouldn't have put the sword back on the wall.

"Get out," he says without turning around.

"My, my. Grumpier than usual today, aren't we? Someone put an extra gallon of brood in your blood?"

"Fuck off, Spike. I'm not in the mood."

Spike closes the door. Turns that impossible leer on him, the one that always wins him a kiss from Connor and makes Angel want to punch him in his pretty, pretty mouth.

"You're always in the mood, as I recall."

Arms fold automatically, doors sliding shut. Elevators, office lobbies. "I used to be. Until you started fucking around with my kid."

Spike shrugs, and that's - unexpected. Capitulation isn't usually won so easily. "Your loss. Came mainly for the drink, anyway. Connor's at study hall. Big exam tomorrow."

Angel frowns. "Really?" Why doesn't he remember that? Harmony usually programs every detail of Connor's day into his Outlook calendar. Damn thing's always dinging at him at all hours, and he never knows how to make it stop.

Spike is already rustling through the bar, clinking bottles together. He won't find much. Angel drank all the good shit last week, after another day of replacing carpets.

"Bloody hell, Angelus. All you got in here is Jack? Didn't think you'd stoop to it."

"Must've known you were coming." Angel sulks his way over to the sofa. Lets his back collapse into it, vertebrae toppling to ruin. He's been sitting all day, but somehow his big padded chair is not the same as the *big padded* couch. He sinks into it like tar sands, sticky and transformative.

Spike disappears into it, leather coat the same colour and texture as the sofa. Hair the colour of blinking neon, and somehow Spike manages to both stand out and blend in wherever he goes.

Angel kind of hates him for that, and a million other reasons. None of which mean a fucking thing when Spike hands over the bottle and Angel drinks, a long, thirst-quenching swig straight from the neck. He can taste Spike's lips on the glass. He can feel his bones unwinding, sinking deeper into the tarry leather. Dinosaurs settling to the bottom of the pool.

"So, big exam tomorrow?"

Spike nods. "Chemistry, I think. Something about actinides and alkaloids? I dunno. Never could remember all that rot."

Angel frowns. "You studied chemistry?"

"Such as it was, back in the day. Think they've added about fifty new elements to the periodic table since then. Bloody brilliant stuff, though. Drugs today are a damn sight better than they used to be."

Angel nods, remembering Orpheus. He hasn't heard from Faith in a couple of months. He'll have to give her a call tomorrow.

Spike's breath smells of alchohol, and his lips are shiny-wet. Angel sinks a little lower in his seat.

"Think he'll be studying late?"

Spike nods. "Pull an all-nighter, probably. Said not to wait up."

He hasn't turned that leer on since Angel shut him down. They haven't even argued yet. And that's just -

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Angel barks.

Spike's eyebrows beetle up his hairline. "What? 'M just sitting here, having a conversation."

"We don't _talk_, Spike. We don't do anything except fight and - " he grabs Spike by the lapels, drags him in for a hard kiss, bottle still in one hand. Whiskey sloshes over Spike's coat. At least it's cheap whiskey. "- do this."

Spike's eyes are rounded wide, no trace of the narrowed cat gaze he usually wears. "You said you weren't in the mood!"

"I'm never in the mood! It's your job to _get_ me in the mood!"

"Sod that!" Spike shoves Angel's hands away. The whiskey sloshes on the couch, this time. "Got options now, don't I? Don't need to go panting after you or anyone else for a bit of play."

"Options" means Connor, because Angel knows Spike would never go anywhere else for this. Unless Connor pushed him onto someone else because he wanted to watch, and now Angel is thinking up voyeuristic scenarios involving his son and that's gotta be Spike's fault. Because everything is.

He slumps into the sofa. It's sucking him down, the office dinosaur being swallowed up by the earth. Too old and plodding to adapt to this new world, where employees bleed purple and computers beep incessantly at him and his son studies chemicals that even Spike knows the names for but he doesn't.

But now, the cat gleam is back in Spike's eye. And suddenly Angel feels like he's plodding on solid ground.

"Boy doesn't mind sharing, you know," Spike purrs. "Leastways not with dear ol' dad."

Angel lifts one eye from the bottle in his hand. "Sure about that?"

Spike nods. "Told him 'bout last time. When he was in Maui? Said I could come over whenever. Keep you company." Spike takes the bottle from Angel's hand. Leans in close. "He doesn't want you to be alone."

Angel blinks. "Great. So Connor's, like, a sultan sending me his concubine as a gift."

"Not wearing a veil for you." Spike grins. Flutters his lashes, pretty as any harem dweller. "Even if you beg."

For a minute, Angel sits very still. Considers picking Spike up and tossing him bodily out the door, with a message to tell Connor he doesn't need his fucking charity. But Spike smells of Connor and home, and Angel has always been a dirty selfish bastard.

"All nighter, huh?"

They kiss on the sofa, and on the floor, and in the elevator. And when they finally make it to bed, Angel's day burns away like oil sands under a desert sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Written on a prompt from Kita. Unbeta'd.


End file.
